Reading the Signs

We got some bad news. It came in Friday at 5 pm, while we were driving through the Florida back roads to buy the couch of my dreams; the couch of my dreams to put in the house of my dreams in Pennsylvania. We were driving the bumpy black pickup truck, swamplands on both sides of us when the call came in. “They are considering another offer.”

The house that nobody wanted had suddenly turned into a bidding war. After several verbal agreements that the seller was signing the contract this week, this news comes in. I was in turn, hurt and confused. I felt cheated. I had finally found this great lover, this perfect lover with ten-foot ceilings and gleaming original hardwood floors, and suddenly, he dumps me---without warning and kind of harshly. I was reeling. It could be the pregnancy hormones, but I cried more over that house than I did over some of my college boyfriends. We were forced to withdraw our offer, we couldn’t afford to get into a bidding war, especially a manipulated one. I suddenly wanted to be Charley, safe at school, playing quietly with his trucks, instead of this bawling grown-up, with no idea where to go.

We turned around from going to get my dream couch. There was no sense if we didn’t have the house to put it in. All week we had been juggling, rushing from chore to chore, and suddenly, it all came crashing down. This is the scary part of moving while pregnant. Selling one house and buying another means everything has to line up perfectly or we are homeless, and it rarely lines up how you want it to. And then, along the way, we got lost. We rumbled through a little town with boarded-up convenience stores and gator jerky stands. Every other building was a church, no bigger than a one-bedroom apartment with a two-story steeple. The road, while paved, was dusty, brown dirt on both sides. I turned to my husband, “Where are we?”

He laughed. “I don’t know, I don’t know what we are going to do.”

“No, I mean, right now, where are we?” I pointed outside.

He did know the answer to that one---luckily he has a better sense of direction than me. We quickly found our way out, to the bustling I-95 highway and back to our beach neighborhood. But we still don’t know the larger answer to that question. My dad believes everything happens for a reason. “It’s a sign.” He tells me as I cry on the phone that we lost the house. A sign for what though, I wonder. A sign we shouldn’t move to such a small town? That we are secretly big city people? Or a sign that a year from now that house will get flooded, or struck by lightning, and we will be glad we never bought it. It seems unlikely. I have trouble reading the signs.

I’m still hurting, days later. My husband wants to show me other listings, and I shake my head no. I’m not ready. I need time to recover before jumping right into another house relationship. And I’m still not convinced I don’t have one last go round of the city in me. I still feel like I don't fit in there, fit in here, fit in anywhere. I think of this song:

“I change shapes just to hide in this place, but I’m still, I’m still an animal . . .”

And I wonder what shape I will be at the end of all this. Part of me wants to give up on this grown-up business of house buying, go back to renting, being a nomad, an animal. How long can you fight settling down with two kids and a dog?

I Say Goodbye, You Say Hello: A Facebook Story

By H. Savala Nolan I’m in the doctor’s waiting room. I’m on the couch during commercials. I’m waiting for my latte. I’m in bed, restless. I’m waiting for my boyfriend to get dressed. I’m in the train station. I’m lined up to board my flight. I idle, therefore, I Facebook.

In moments of quiet—moments I might use for serenity, to smell the scents and see the colors of the world around me—I grab my phone and tap the icon, a plain blue square with a friendly white “f” just slightly off center. Behold: my friends. I’m idle, but they are busy. They are fawning over baby animals, baying for blood because of politics, announcing spiritual truths, loafing in tropical sun, sitting down to the best meal ever, cataloging the day’s humdrum  triumphs and defeats, staring alluringly into the eye of a camera, getting engaged, having children, praying over dying aunts and granddads. Despite myself, and despite how over-stimulated, drained, or jealous  it can leave me, I log on. I can’t seem to help it.

Everyone is ambivalent about Facebook. How can we not be? Status updates—the meat of the log-on—do one of two things: elevate the boring, or degrade the profound. Both are bothersome. It exasperates me that some friends think hundreds of people hang on edge, craving  ruminations on how much they love coffee, every day. (And yet, the prosaic is the real juice of life, how we string our days together—why shouldn’t we honor it?) I’m uncomfortable when my friends announce the death of a relative with a stroke of text—silent, clinical, hovering in ether—transmitted to people who will read, dash off sympathy, and forget. (And yet, we know people all over the world. We can’t make 478 phone calls or address 478 letters. This is how we live now.)

But here is the real trouble with Facebook: I never talk to my best friends anymore. In high school, Louise and I sometimes chatted on the phone for 6 or 7 hours a night. We talked about seniors we pined for (their leather jackets and spiky hair and the pretty girls they dated). We talked about music (Green Day and Nine Inch Nails). We talked about diets (cabbage soup) and drinking (did we dare?) and what color to dye our hair (purple). Adulthood at 30-something renders that omnipresent intimacy impossible; she produces reality television, I practice law, we are busy and live 2,000 miles apart. But even in our roaring twenties, we still spoke almost daily. Now, after the entrenchment of Facebook, it is typical for us to go nearly a month without speaking. Recently, with aching disbelief, I realized that the sole reason I know anything about her life is because of her status updates, which tend to be pithy and unremitting, headlines refreshed every few hours as if she were a newspaper. But could that be true?  To test my theory, I blocked her from my newsfeed. A month passed. Radio silence, except for my birthday, when she called. But before that, I couldn’t tell you if she was alive or dead.

At first, confirming the fallow state of our friendship chagrined me. I felt wronged—by her. What sort of person has time to broadcast her whereabouts, food and beverage intake, disgruntled moments, workouts, and crowd-sourcing inquiries upward of a dozen times a day, but cannot find time to connect with her best friend, one on one? To be sure, this isn’t all Facebook. She and I hammer out resolutions when, periodically, I feel I’m single-handedly doing the work of friendship. Perhaps we are simply growing apart. I, of course, could have called her; but why would I? I had Facebook. And so our affinity for Facebook—the estranged, thoughtless intimacy of it—allowed the primary challenge in our incredibly important friendship to become to the substance.

Then, after a few weeks, something unexpected happened: the irritation waned, and I began to miss her. I began to miss her in a way I never did when following her every move and thought online. In fact, I couldn’t have missed her on Facebook: she was everywhere, always.

Yes, I missed her, with the fresh, affectionate curiosity that used to precede a phone call to say hello. And I realized that, despite the constant “updates,” I missed my other best friends, and some family members, too. I didn’t want the curated comic book of their lives; that’s what Keeping Up with the Kardashians is for. I wanted noise,  texture, and monogamy, not silence, a screen, and a stranger “liking” what I wrote. I wanted interjection. I wanted to hear laughter and sighs, and remember that I know some voices so well I can see the speaker’s facial expressions over the phone. I wanted to see, or at least recall, familiar bodies that take up real space. I wanted the moments of silence that come, they say, about every seven minutes in a conversation. And I wanted to hear my voice, too. I needed the grounding and fruition that comes from contact, not the bargain-basement copy that comes from interface.

So I blocked everyone I’m close to. It was a strangely anxious goodbye, as if I were strapping myself into a space shuttle, only perhaps to return. My  mom, my best friend, my boyfriend. All the inner circle, and the next-to-inner circle. Gone.

But suddenly present. Suddenly, again, real. Suddenly, again, in my awareness because they are not constantly in my face. Just like a fish can’t think about water, maybe we can’t truly contemplate—or properly love—people who are always in front of us in the most superficial ways. Good though it may be to “keep in touch” by knowing my brother-in-law ran four miles today, that news is the emotional equivalent of junk food. I don’t see my loved ones when I log on, and I feel a pang of, well, love. After a few days, I think, Hey, where are Jane and Quinn and Melissa and David? How are they? What are they doing these days? It’s like letting yourself get truly, empty-stomach, slightly-on-edge hungry; then you truly want to eat! If you graze all day, you never feel hunger, and you’re never satisfied by what you eat because your eating isn’t connected to satisfaction.

Now, if I want to know what’s up with my brother, I call. And I was surprised to discover that calling was scary. It turns out that I, a social butterfly, have developed a Facebook-induced shyness. Calling feels so forward, so direct, so daunting. But only for about a minute. Then you come to your senses. You give yourself an inward smack across the cheek, and snap out of it. Afraid to call my brother? Are you kidding? I’ve known him for 32 years, and we get along! What’s there to debate? Call. And I do. And we are, as in the old days, family. It feels great.

And there is a bonus, though it’s not one Facebook’s shareholders would be thrilled to know about: I log-on less. Much less. After all, what is there to see? The photographs of puppies that my Mom’s former best friend is currently into? The engagement news of people I never liked but was too meek to ignore when they requested my friendship? The wit and attitude as my cousin’s pals outdo each other’s comments? How entirely, intensely boring.

Especially when there is a city outside my window, and sunshine, and late-summer fruit, and music, and people. My friends, my family, and myself, to be seen and heard.

Nothing new under the (wedding) sun

Last week, I wrote about DIY illusions, and I feel like I have to come clean. Roxanne’s comment reminded me that it’s nearly impossible to discuss DIY culture and not mention weddings. I did it, though—I churned out the whole piece without mentioning the “W” word once. As it turns out, my fiancé and I are awash in the final weeks of planning our wedding. Although the topic is at the forefront of my mind, I thought I’d do this space a favor and leave all of that wedding business out. I figured there’s already enough (and perhaps too much) internet real estate devoted to the chiffon/taffeta/burlap/mason jar dream of getting hitched with all the trimmings.

If you’ll allow me, though, I’d like to reflect a bit further on DIY culture, a trend that has both fascinated and bewildered me as we’ve navigated the wedding planning process since our engagement in March. Much of our wedding is “DIY,” in the sense that we’re doing it ourselves. The only professional we’ve hired is a photographer, so many of the logistical and material aspects of the day will be created and executed by ourselves or our loved ones. But this isn’t what I mean at all when I use the letters “D-I-Y.”

DIY culture, I think, is a pervasive sense that the material aspects of a wedding, or a home, or a life, for that matter, are only special and meaningful when they are crafted and personalized and customized by oneself, for oneself. There's certainly something special about the things we make ourselves, but the pressure to create-your-own everything can sometimes be overwhelming. Perhaps this anxiety is fueled by our overexposure to the intimate details of the lives of others and a resulting desire to differentiate ourselves.

Weddings are such a common life cycle event, but after you’ve ogled wedding blog photos from around the world, followed by a healthy dose of your 500 favorite Facebook friends’ weddings, “common” takes on a whole new meaning. It’s hard not to wonder whether there is anything new under the sun.

I went to a talk this weekend by Austin Kleon, author of Steal Like an Artist, and I couldn’t help but apply his perspective on creativity more broadly to weddings and other aspects of life too (I hope he doesn’t mind!). The idea is simply to get comfortable with the idea that nothing is completely original. Our creative works (and our homes and our weddings) are composites of the objects and the people and the ideas that have come before us.

This approach isn’t meant to be depressing, but rather freeing. What’s different and special each time a new poem is written, or a new couple gets married, is simply the remix of influences and the presence of the individuals themselves who are creating or transitioning or moving through life, like those who’ve gone before them. That’s all, and that’s enough.

Sometimes I’ve wondered in the past few months whether we’re doing enough to make our wedding feel personal or unique. We haven’t managed to cover anything in burlap or chalkboard paint (yet?), because we’re too busy arranging basic things, like matching up the number of chairs with the number of tushes. I’m relieved to be reminded, though, that everything we’re doing has been done before. What’s different this time is simply that we’re the ones doing it, together.

What Are You Reading (Offline, that is)?

Brooke Jackson is a freelance writer, self-proclaimed foodie, and blogger recently living in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  She received her degree from Auburn University where she studied accounting (and college football).  After graduation, Brooke figured out that she favored letters to numbers and began the vegetarian recipe and lifestyle blog, Veggie Table.  On her blog, she shares simple vegetarian meals that have been tested and approved by her meat-loving husband.  When Brooke isn't busy in the kitchen, she can be found sipping coffee at the local cafe, strolling the river front trails with their dog, or photographing her adventures in the city and its mountainous backdrop. Brooke Jackson, Veggie Table New Complete Vegetarian by:  Rose Elliot I've been a vegetarian for half of my life and had to get creative in the kitchen after marrying my husband.  Cooking meatless meals for someone who enjoys a medium rare steak has its challenges.  In order to keep peace at our dining table, I read recipes to learn more about different flavor combinations and cooking techniques.  Rose Elliot's New Complete Vegetarian was given to me as a gift, and I'm currently drooling over its every page.  With over sixty books under her belt, Rose is Britain's most influential vegetarian/vegan writer.  Her ingredients and words are so engulfing you can actually smell the aromas of each course being prepared.    This particular cook book contains hundreds of mouth-watering recipes covering a hostess' every need: sweet relishes and tangy salad dressings; veggie infused pastas and rice; made-from-scratch tarts and cheesy quiches; and delectable desserts.  Rose's ingredient lists are short and simple which works well for both the intimidated beginner cook or the expert chef.  Whether you follow a recipe step-by-step or put your own unique spin on it, this book is the perfect cooking companion.

Holly Roberts, Alabama-based Singer/Song Writer Just Kids  by: Patti Smith Just Kids is a memoir written by Patti Smith, the “Godmother of Punk.” I could try to summarize this book, but there is so much happening that I can't put my finger on one specific premise. It's an ode to art and music, personal expression and exploration, and companionship and love. Smith moved to New York City during the summer of 1967. It was at the end of a few artistic eras such as the Beat Generation and the Warhol Factory Years, so Smith found herself riding on the coattails of many fascinating artists. Searching for her own masterpiece, she made a vow that her life would be dedicated to creating and sharing her work. On that very night, Robert Mapplethorpe, who is now an iconic photographer, made the same promise to give himself to his art. Later on, while Smith was working at Brentano’s Books on Fifth Avenue, the two crossed paths and quickly became each other’s artistic guide and muse. They searched together while creating, painting, filming, writing, and capturing life. Smith and Mapplethorpe were young artists or "just kids" on the verge of both breakdown and breakthrough. They experimented their way through the late 60's and lived on the forefront of their wildest dreams.  During her time at the Hotel Chelsea, Patti also met some of my favorites such as Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsburg, and Andy Warhol. NYC has always been a melting pot of sensations with a variety of people who have big dreams and enduring stamina.  Smith's descriptions are so poetically vivid that I found myself channeling her words as if they were my memories she recanted, constantly dropping the book to close my eyes and breathe.  Hooray for empathy!  Pick up this book, please!

Elizabeth Jackson, Environmental Management Consultant Thin Air: Encounters in the Himalayas by: Greg Child A few months ago, I read the story of Jon Krakauer's experience on one of Mount Everest's most fatal seasons and have been semi-obsessed with Himalayan adventures ever since. I love every aspect of it: the physical challenges the human body endures to climb these peaks; the devotion and sometimes detrimental commitment of mountaineers to reach the highest places on Earth; and the emotional and mental battles that altitude, stress and ego add to the journey. After listening to me share stories of the Himalayas as though I was part of the trek myself, a friend gave Thin Air to me. The book sweeps you away into a range of breath-taking mountains while sharing some of the most riveting stories of Himalayan treks. One feels the roller coaster of excitement, the heartache from the innate barriers of being in politically delicate regions of the world to fulfill their dreams, the language struggles existing in crucial relationships, the undefinable joy of reaching their goals, and the bonding and loss of friends. I highly recommend this read for those who are seeking an adventure in life.

Erica Peppers, Caught On A Whim  Life of Pi by: Yann Martel This is the story of a boy named Pi, who leaves India with his family to find a new life in Canada. While at sea, tragedy strikes and the unthinkable happens: Pi is the lone human survivor of a shipwreck and is stranded aboard a small lifeboat with an unusual assortment of companions. His only companions consist of a hyena, zebra, orangutan and Bengal tiger. Pi's courage and determination are tested as he must learn to survive on his own in the vast ocean while keeping the distraught wild animals at bay. Pi's story is one of hope, courage and self-preservation in the most unnatural of circumstances.

Natalie Waits Martin, English Teacher in Spain Killing Lincoln< by: Bill O'Reilly & Martin Dugard This summer I brushed up on my American history by reading Killing Lincoln. I´m sure that sounds like a dreaded 11th grade required reading assignment, but I promise this book is not what you think. There will be no exam afterwards and, unlike me, you probably won´t be asked to write a synopsis of what you´ve read. Yes, it is the true story of the Lincoln assassination in 1865, but it's also a thriller told from the perspective of both the assassin and the victim. As we all know, John Wilkes Booth was the man who shot the President. But what else do you know about him? This book takes you inside his world and details his thoughts, relationships and movements, especially in the days leading up to the murder and the days immediately following. Lincoln, on the other hand, becomes a character that you wish didn´t have to die as you are also taken away from John Wilkes Booth and into the White House to witness his conversations and fears in the days leading up to his fateful trip to the Ford theater. I found myself hoping that history would somehow rewrite itself and only wish more historic events were written this way.

Lessons from the Hamptons...

Dearest Clara,

Summer has nearly come and gone---most people believe it ended this week.  But I still stand my ground, and will to the end, that autumn doesn’t really begin until September 21^st! So in my book, there are still summer days to enjoy in this next couple of weeks that bridge us to the cooler seasons.   People are right to some degree though, it is somehow not quite the same once you pass the Labor Day mark.

To celebrate summer’s last real weekend, we finally made a trip up to the Hamptons, on the New York Coast, visiting the friends we’ve been promising to see for two full summers now, and I’m so glad that we finally made it.  I had never been before, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I was afraid that it would be a very long drive for a beach that would be different than what we’re used to---something crowded and full of everything we’re trying to get away from in the city---but it wasn’t that at all.  In fact, our weekend did nothing but exceed my expectations, and we’re already looking forward to that next summer invitation.  Here are a couple of things that I’ll keep in mind from this trip:

• Keep your eyes open:  Let’s face it, the Hamptons are a bit of a see and be seen kind of place.  I’m terrible at people-spotting---in Washington, senators, politicians, and world leaders pass me by nearly every day without my noticing, and celebrities in the Hamptons were no different.  If you keep your eyes open better than you mother, I bet you get some pretty cool people watching.
• Try everything on for size and find your niche:  I had mistakenly thought that “the Hamptons” were a singular destination, but it’s not so at all.  It’s a collection of small towns, each with their own distinct personality and crowd.  If it’s your first visit, give them all a try with an open mind and then settle in to the one that fits your own style.
• It’s windier on the water:  The beach alongside this coast is wide open, and the wind can pick up very quickly.  Bring layers and an extra hair elastic, and be careful as currents form in the cooler water.  But wind isn’t necessarily a bad thing, retreat to beat the heat here and who knows, you might even take a surfing lesson or two.
• Eat (and drink) local:  This little stretch of island is gifted with so much abundance, especially in the summertime, you can’t help but to want to take it all in.    Fruits . . . vegetables . . . lobster . . . fish . . . take advantage of all that’s here when you make your choices for what to make or what to pick off the menu.  Even the local rosé would give the south of France a little run for their euros.  It makes you feel more summery just having summer’s gifts right there.   Don’t be afraid to stop at the roadside stands. Those extra treats will come in handy when you find yourself interminably stuck in traffic on Route 27.
• Prepare to share:   The Hamptons are a more is merrier kind of place, just the way I like it.  There always seems to be room at a house for another overnight guest, room at the table for another couple to drop by, room for a few more on the beach blanket. If you’re staying at someone’s house, bring hostess gifts for more than you think.  Some parts of summer are best enjoyed with others and in this respect, the Hamptons nail it.

All my love,

Mom

Ladies Night

It feels funny to write about “women’s issues.”  I’m not even convinced I know exactly what that phrase means.  It calls up images of tampon commercials and bra-trashing protests at beauty pageants.  But I just finished watching the first night of the Democratic National Convention and it seems clear to me that women are a critically important demographic to the Democratic party and essential to winning the country.  As ambivalent as I am to acknowledge this fact, I think we do have special interests and issues that concern us, specifically.  And as such, I am not ashamed to say that I ardently support our President and would like to see him re-elected, come November. Both sides in the political sphere have sought to appeal pointedly to women during these conventions and I both appreciate and resent this.  A prime example is that the parties scheduled dueling speeches by Ann Romney and Michelle Obama in an attempt to increase the draw of their husbands.  On one hand, I think it is quite a statement about the important function of a political wife, that every great man has a woman behind (?) him.  But you can also see how this is somehow insulting – Why does she need to be behind him?  Why must she be relegated to addressing more domestic issues and talking about feelings?  Why do we need a “woman’s touch” to “soften” a man?  Why aren’t men allowed to look powerful AND empathic on their own?  I have so many of these questions, as I know you do.

I have struggled over the past months to understand how any woman would feel included and respected in the Republican vision for America.  I also watched the Republican National Convention and found myself trying to look into the eyes of the women in the audience — as the camera periodically panned to them — to see what I was missing.  What allows these women to ignore the way their leaders are working to suppress their very humanity?

Positions on broader issues like healthcare, general economic disparities and the social safety net are certainly applicable to women, but there are ways in which the Republican party is working to drag just us decidedly backward.  Here is just one example from this past spring  involving a new law in Virginia requiring women seeking abortions to undergo intrusive ultrasounds.  The particular cognitive dissonance of supporting a party platform that includes eroding your own reproductive rights seems incredible to me.  Not to mention the way that Republican state and national leaders have stood in the way of remedying the 23 cent per dollar gap in pay that women continue to experience.

It’s more than a little surreal that in 2012 we are still and again concerned about an assault on our freedom to make basic health decisions.  At the DNC, NARAL Pro-Choice President Nancy Keenan described the stark policy differences between Democrats and Republicans on this issue.  In elections past, the Republican platform has been officially against reproductive rights for women, while some less socially conservative members of the party would still quietly note that they were pro-choice.  These party members were essentially left to their own devices, especially if it was politically expedient.  This year, Republicans have upped the ante and changed the philosophical stance and the actual language of the platform — they are now zealously anti-abortion and make absolutely no exceptions to this, even for rape or the health of the mother.  I know a few political pundits who find this development astounding in its signaling of how far right the party has traveled.  Quite obviously for us, it is deplorable because it assails the basic rights of women in a way our generation has never seen.

In the world of behavioral assessment, it is widely held that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.  For example, in evaluating an individual’s level of imminent dangerousness (either to themselves or others), a heavily weighted factor is always whether that person has engaged in dangerous behavior previously.   If the answer is yes, the level of risk is increased and you climb down another branch on the decision tree.  Looking back on the past few years of Republican leaders introducing and enacting legislation that chips away at women’s rights, it is imperative that when they simply describe their party as being for and about women, it cannot distract us from the facts on the ground.  You can learn more about reproductive rights in each state here.

There are legitimate conversations to be had about how effectively this president has served our country, ways in which Democratic leaders could clean up their act and in what ways many people in many positions of power have let us down.  One might disagree with the assessment of history, the economic theories or policy prescriptions of one party or another.  But there can be no question which party supports women’s rights.  This is not a personal or professional analysis, this is something about which Republicans make no bones — they do not endorse a woman’s right to make her own health decisions and it is right there in their platform.

This is a call to action.  This election is going to be close.  Make sure you are registered, tell your friends and loved ones and get out there and vote.

Not what they expected

Standing in the Shampoo aisle I turned to my husband and half-joking asked ‘Which one will make your mother like me?’

My in-laws are perfectly lovely people, who don’t speak a lot of English.  I am a perfectly lovely girl who doesn’t speak Bengali. My in-laws are also coming to visit. For a month.  And while I find them to be perfectly lovely people, I’m still stressing over every little thing: is the apartment clean, do we need new towels, will she like this shampoo, etc. Its silly, and I know that, but I'm still anxious.

You see, I don’t know my in-laws that well.  We communicate in broken sentences and third person translators.  Every morning when we lived in Bangladesh as my husband and I walked out the door to work, my mother-in-law would ask Kamon Achen? How are you?  Every morning I responded Bhalo Achi.  I’m fine.  It’s the response I was taught, and the only one I know.  So every morning, rain or shine, I’m fine.  Besides the lack of communication, prior to last year, I had spent a very small portion of time with my mother and father in-law.  I quite literally met them three days before our wedding.  They spend the majority of their time in Bangladesh and I spend the majority of my time in America, so we’re not exactly crossing paths at the grocery store.

Which brings me to the second issue: as you may have perceived, ours is a cross-cultural relationship.  I love the fact that my husband and I come from different cultures and grew up worlds apart.  I love hearing stories about what it was like growing up in Dhaka, where my husband went to school, what he did for fun, even where he took girls on dates.  But I am acutely aware that my husband’s parents expected him to go away to college and then come back home and marry a nice Deshi girl.  In fact my father-in-law specifically gave my husband three rules when he left home: Don’t do Drugs, Don’t Marry an American girl, and Come Back to Bangladesh.  It wasn’t that he had anything against pale girls like me, he had just never seen it work out.  Every cross-cultural relationship the family had witnessed ended in disaster: people split up, kids were caught in the middle, finances became tangled. They just didn’t think it could work.

Happily, my husband and I are proving to be the exception to the rule. But I still wasn't what they expected.  I know they like me now, I know they see that both my husband and I are happy with each other. Without a doubt, all of the tension and worry is on my end, not theirs. So perhaps I should just chill out and release the anxiety that's knotted in my chest.  But I think its much more likely that I'll buy more towels.

And then, on Friday, we’ll pick Abbu and Mamoni up at the airport, have a nice dinner, and then drive back to the small town we currently call home.  We’ll help them unpack and Mamoni will pass me the gifts she brought me from Bangladesh.  My husband will complain that ever since we got married his parent’s spoil me instead of him.  The knot in my stomach will ease, and that will be the start of things.

Myanmar, A Land Of Pagodas (And Smiles)

I’m sitting on a plane flying from Yangon to Bangkok. My journey throughout Asia is almost over---in seventy-two hours I will be in Milan again, less money in my pockets, but certainly richer and more conscious than I was when I left Italy a month ago, unaware of all the things I was going to see and learn in the days ahead. I’m writing this piece on a ripped piece of paper. On the back, a list of do’s and don’ts in  Myanmar---some basic rules our guide gave us and that we were supposed to follow in order to behave respectfully in the country.  I’m wondering---did we do something wrong? Were we good and considerate guests? While I’m trying to retrace all the things that happened in the last 10 days in Myanmar, many images and stories come vividly to my mind.

“Accept or give things with your right hand. However, when you offer something to a monk, a nun or an elderly person, use both hands.”

I’ve always been curious about the way monks and nuns live. There are many different kinds of Buddhist monks. In Myanmar, all men are required to become monks at least twice in their lifetime---once when they are young and once when they are adults. So, while some children decide they want to be monks forever and stay in the monastery for good, some others opt for shorter terms, which can last from a few hours to a couple of weeks. Myanmar is a land of temples and pagodas. There are thousands of monasteries all over the country where men can retire and learn the basic principles of Buddhism. During this period of learning they leave everything behind and every morning wander from house to house in search for food. Once they return, they sort through the offerings. Some of the food is eaten straight away for breakfast. The rest is saved for the last meal of the day, which is normally at noon.

“Try to speak Burmese, the local language. Simple “hellos” and “thank yous” are  always greatly appreciated.”

Myanmar is also the land of smiles. Just by saying “mingalaba” (hello) or “chei-zu” (thank you) we got the biggest smiles we have ever seen. Despite a land rich in natural resources, from precious stones to natural gas, families in Myanmar are poor, and the average salary is between $60-100 a month. But no matter how much people make, they are always happy to offer you a cup of ginger tea, and fried peanuts and chickpeas with sesame seeds . . . so yummy!

“Remove your shoes before entering a private house and be ready to share and learn.”

One day, on our way from Bagan to Mount Popa, we stopped at a private property where a family of nine have been making candies and liquor out of palm trees for generations. Myanmar people are the best at using whatever resource nature has to offer. They cut the palm leaves, collect the drops in coconut shells, and boil the liquid until it becomes a paste. Before the paste dries, they make small balls of candies, which harden under the sunlight. The candies were delicious . . . I had so many of them that I think I got myself cavities! My husband and I really enjoyed the day, watching people work at their own pace, while sharing their family tales with complete strangers like us.  There was Kyi, who was intertwining bamboo and making hats and small purses. And then there was Htay, her husband, chewing tobacco leaves while boiling palm sugar and making liquor out of it. Grandma was all for the grandchildren, who were home from school for a holiday. They were running around, laughing out loud and screaming words unknown to us. But, even though we had no clue about what they were saying, we were sure of one thing---those were words of happiness, a universal language as sparkling as palm tree drops, which resonates whenever one has the capacity of hearing it.

Excerpt from Mandalay, by Rudyard Kipling

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,

There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:

"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"

    Come you back to Mandalay,

    Where the old Flotilla lay:

    Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?

    On the road to Mandalay,

    Where the flyin'-fishes play,

    An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

The Lighted Shore

By Rebecca D. Martin I didn't think it was worth wishing for---not for another couple years, at least. No, I'm not talking about finding my lost camera (I still hold out for that) or my daughter’s missing cloth diapers (I can live without those for a while longer yet). The camera and the diapers are casualties of our recent move. I am certain they are smashed right up against each other in the depths of the unlikeliest box possible in the back corner of the basement where we won't find them till we move again next summer.

No, it was simpler than finding a picture taker or a stack of bum covers, and much more fleeting. And, for that, all the more precious. My daughter, my dear, contented daughter, played quietly and happily for an hour and a half on Sunday afternoon. Perfect girl. Perfect day. My husband and I lazed on the sofa and watched an entire episode of our favorite British detective show. I had one brief moment of guilt over letting my child flip her own book pages alone on the other side of the room for so long, but don't worry; it passed. I settled under the blanket and immersed myself in imaginative renderings of World War II England, courtesy of the BBC.

When our daughter was born, after those first couple months that launched us so far onto the further shore of parenthood we could hardly catch the smallest glimpse of the coastline we'd left behind - after all that, I really only missed one thing: Saturday mornings.

In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard describes the process of waking up and the

"pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in a shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost in the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing."[1]

I know this well. Those pictures you dream, that lighted shore, the dim headland encroaching. "I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing," Dillard says. Me, too. I used to wake up in the morning and hurry to my writing desk, hoping not to be distracted before I could catch in a net of words the heightened creative thoughts from that fleeting, dreamlike shore before they got lost in the leafy interior of the conscious day. Sometimes I didn't even stop to make coffee. I'd spend an hour in front of the computer and finally come to, realizing I was ravenous.

Some friends of mine wake up differently. One says she comes fully awake the instant she's left sleep behind, clear-headed and ready to think, talk, or do. Another, a roommate during college dorm days, used to all but leap out of her high lofted bed, greeting each morning with a bound of energy and restraining herself mightily from greeting me in like manner. Because, awake in those early moments, I was still on the far side of the headland, imagination heightened, caught up in my shining morning thinkings. Addressing me was dangerous; that roommate spoke in the early hours at the risk of our very friendship. She fast learned a quiet patience with me.

The bright light Dillard describes, the misty minutes between sleep and waking, those used to be my favorite moments of the day. Those were the times my imagination ran most wild, my body felt most rested and comfortable, my creative mind thought best. On most of the Saturdays I can remember in my adult life, back when I had the luxury, I stretched out those moments as long as possible. Especially when Monday through Friday saw me at work at 8:00a.m. A slow-waking Saturday morning was always a gift.

So even before our daughter was born, I had some idea what I was going to be losing. But still, it came as a shock, a cup of cold water in the face. I was thrust into the leafy interior on the alarum note of one long, hungry wail, and the Saturdays I'd heretofore known were lost in the arrival of that other---that far better---gift. That first year, nursing her in those early minutes that used to be mine, all mine, only mine, I mourned the loss.

I've gotten used to it now. Most weekends, I barely give a thought to what Saturdays used to be like, and, somewhere along the way, I've learned to revel in the new normal: the three of us sitting on the floor together, munching granola, drinking coffee and tea, playing with puzzle pieces and books and matchbox cars. Feeding pretend cereal to Pooh Bear. Carrying disparate toys from one room to another. This is a good life. These, too, are shining morning moments.

But I'll tell you, when my husband and I get to lounge on the sofa for an hour and a half---an hour and a half!!---well. Those old, intensely creative writing mornings may be gone for now, but watching an entire movie in the middle of the day, uninterrupted . . . that doesn't fall too far short.

Today's a different day: Monday. My husband works long and hard at his office, and the two of us girls are on our own. I can tell it's a one-nap day, so I won't get in as much writing time or me time as I sometimes do. We'll fill up our minutes with other, more active things. The grocery store, FedEx, Target. A stroll in the late summer heat, play time, dinner prep. Once my husband gets home and we eat and clean up, maybe he'll sit on the floor with our daughter while I dig through boxes and drawers---again---in hopes of finding the camera before we leave for vacation next week. I’m hoping for one long, lighted shore of a beach holiday, and I’d like to capture some of those moments on film.

But I'm learning the camera's not actually necessary, nor is that indulgent, slow morning wake-up time. For now, an afternoon like Sunday's is enough. Yes, that memory will be enough to last me through many early-woken Saturdays to come. That, and the hope that maybe, some Sunday, it'll happen again. I've got another BBC episode saved in my Netflix queue on the off-chance. Till then, Pooh Bear and my daughter eagerly await my attentions.

[1] Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Harper's Magazine Press, New York: 1974. p.2

Emma Goldman: Anarchist. Lover. Public Speaker.

It’s my second conference presentation. Ever. I’m seated between two other women—one, a PhD candidate at a tony East Coast institution; the other, a full professor and virtual expert on my topic. We were placed in the largest of the four conference rooms, and it’s mostly full. Curses. I thank the conference gods we’re allowed to sit during our speech. And that I brought a PowerPoint. ("If you'll all just take a look at this shiny picture instead of at me . . .")

Public speaking has, throughout my life, been the bane of my academic existence. As the hour of reckoning approaches, my stomach inevitably begins to dance and my palms get sweaty. I totter between the conviction that everything, as it always has been, will be fine, and the terror that this, yes this, is the time when I will finally, completely go to pieces in front of a large group of people. Maybe I’ll forget the words and do a dance, or worse, run from the room. (Fight or flight.)

I’ve always admired women and men who are gifted public speakers. There’s such an element of performance to it: a combination of confidence, conviction, and drama. Remembering my own shortcomings in these areas, of which I am painfully aware, I love to look up to this particular historical woman of the day for inspiration.

The incomparable Emma Goldman was born and raised in the Russian Empire, in present-day Lithuania, to an Orthodox Jewish family. In 1885, at the age of sixteen, she emigrated to the United States—already a veteran of a radical student circle in St. Petersburg, her political career would take root in the midst of the labor and anarchy movements of urban America.

It’s difficult to enumerate all the causes Goldman fought for: anarchism, socialism, workers’ rights, immigrants’ rights, free love, birth control. She sought to address the social evils that resulted from a rapidly industrializing, urbanizing America, as around her the rich got richer, the poor got poorer, and the robber barons got like super crazy insane stupid rich. Today this struggle, while tiresome, seems timeless; in the late 1800s and early 1900s, I imagine that it was also terrifying. The America we know---messy, diverse, capitalist, benevolent, unjust---was being born, and these struggles were its birthing pains.

Goldman typically sided with the underdog, railing against the inequalities of American society and the injustice of those in power. Her fights met with various degrees of success. But whatever her cause, one thing you could say about Goldman: she could speak.

Her speeches were famous, or infamous, depending what side of turn-of-the-century politics you were on. She toured the country giving her special brand of fiery talks that indicted the industrialists, the politicians, and the very structures of capitalism, and incited the working class, the women, the underprivileged to action. As writer Vivian Gornick puts it in "Love and Anarchy" (Chronicle of Higher Education 58:10):

“[Goldman’s intensity] was midwife to a remarkable gift she had for making those who heard her feel intimately connected to the pain inherent in whatever social condition she was denouncing. As the women and men in her audience listened to her, a scenario of almost mythic proportions seemed to unfold before their eyes. The homeliness of their own small lives became invested with a sense of drama that acted as a catalyst for the wild, vagrant hope--especially vulnerable to mean-spirited times--that things need not be as they are.”

We are in an election year. If you’re like me, you’re probably a little tired of hearing political speeches. (But how about that Clint Eastwood, right? Heh.) Without pointing any fingers, we’re seeing candidates who purposely downplay their past achievements if they don’t align with the party platform. Candidates whose views are “evolving” instead of just straight up existing, who must avoid certain subjects so as not to stir up segments of their voting base.

Emma Goldman wasn’t a politician. She was, perhaps, more of a rabble-rouser. But her career is incredibly inspiring because for everything she spoke about, she believed. Her passion was singular, unparalleled. Indeed, one of Goldman’s major complaints about fellow anarchists and revolutionaries was their diminishing of the individual within the mob and their privileging of the intellect over feeling. For Goldman, the individual was everything-- her anarchist utopia involved the liberation of the individual, not just the collective. It wasn’t all about politics. In fact, she had an active sex life and threw herself wholeheartedly into her romances, most notably with fellow anarchists Alexander “Sasha” Berkman and Ben Reitman. She didn’t just speak, she lived. (If you don’t believe me, read a few of her love letters. Wow! She’d put modern romance novelists to shame.)

Goldman built a decades-long career out of her activism, so of course, she had her fair share of trouble with the police. She was suspected of being involved in at least two assassination plots, including President McKinley’s, though it’s unlikely she played a role. It wasn’t until 1917, however, that her “treasonous” positions on World War I and the military draft finally made her United States residency untenable. She was deported to Russia, where she witnessed and quickly became disillusioned with the Revolution. She spent only two years there before moving on. After spending time campaigning against the fascists in Spain, she finally settled in Toronto, where she died in 1940 at the age of 70, a long, rewarding, and, in my opinion, incredibly well-spent life behind her.

My speech is over. I hand the microphone off. I’m pretty satisfied with how I did—I enunciated, I made eye contact with audience members, I didn’t stumble or stutter. I got my message across. Most of all, I didn’t run from the room in a panic. The full professor to my right congratulates me; she tells me I had some great material, but I could work a bit on my dynamics and volume. I’m no Emma Goldman, but I'm getting there.

Looking Forward: Feeling Bad, Feeling Brave.

For a span of several months, I had a Holbrook Jackson quote as the wallpaper on my computer screen. Happiness is a form of courage, it read. I remember reading this for the first time, years ago, and feeling electrified. I found it so empowering. Every day, we’re confronted with myriad reasons to be angry, bitter, disappointed, discouraged, worried, or frightened. People get sick. Friends move away. Relationships fall apart. We lose jobs, miss trains, trip on the stairs. We say things we don’t mean. Do things we wish we could take back. Take risks that lead us nowhere. To choose to celebrate the good in life in spite of all of this---to focus on the positive when really, it’s the last thing we want to do---is a beautiful thing.

I believe this wholeheartedly. But. I’ve learned a curious thing recently.

A few days ago, I finished telling someone a story by saying, “I was so annoyed, but . . .”

He held up a hand. “Why don’t you just stop at but?” he said. “If you were annoyed, you were annoyed.”

Believe it or not, I really hadn’t ever thought of it that way. I always figured it was the right thing to do to turn the page on a negative situation right away, to try to make things okay as quickly as possible. To focus on feeling unpleasant would be wallowing---and wallowing, I thought, wasn’t productive.

It seems funny to think that I need to get better at feeling bad. I used to think that letting myself get too angry or too sad or too bored or too disappointed meant that I was losing control. I tend to react to negative situations swiftly and efficiently, with statements like, well, on the bright side . . . or there’s really no reason to be upset.  But, I'm relieved to find, giving in to feeling upset from time to time doesn’t make me less of a positive person. It makes me . . . a person.

To feel these things is human. Acknowledging them, it turns out, can be a form of courage, too.

The in-between-days

I don't always handle transitions gracefully. I'd almost always rather feel squarely in one place than anywhere between two.  The starker the line I can draw between an end and a new beginning, the better. As a kid this meant donning woolly knee socks for the first day of school. It didn't matter if school began in late August and the temperature on the thermometer still hovered somewhere in the mid-eighties. In my mind the start of school meant that summer was officially over and the sooner I forgot about long lazy days of popsicles and sprinklers, the happer I'd be. It wasn't until after I graduated from college that I began my real love affair with September. All my life I'd been so busy rushing myself into fall that I had never allowed myself to appreciate the in-between-days---days when the temperatures dip low enough that I can finally crank on the oven, but the trees are still heavy with summer fruit. I celebrate September by making sweet tarts with peaches and plums and savory ones with tomatoes the size of my head. In these days I can take a long walk after my work day and still be accompanied by the sun. The early morning will sometimes call for a thin sweater, but by mid-day I'll need an iced tea to cool myself down. Turns out that these are the kinds of transitions I can enjoy. It's not that I'm reluctant to leave summer behind, it's just that I'm happy to take these days leading up to fall slowly. There will be plenty of time for woolly socks come November.

My Story: Epilogue

My mother came to visit me in early spring, nearly two years after I was married, just a few months before I finished my last college classes. In the previous four years, I had only scraped by three years’ worth of credits. I knew that the end of my classes would not bring a walk across the stage or a diploma to hang on the wall for me. But I also knew, deep in my heart, that it was the right time. It was time for me to be done with school for the present; to focus my energy on taking care of myself and keeping things running smoothly at home. I had learned that it was possible for me to go to school part-time—but when I did, I found I couldn’t do anything else. Keeping one or two classes each semester was a grueling effort for me, demanding all of my time, attention, and energy, and leaving absolutely nothing left of me when I was finished.

It had been a difficult decision to make, but the raw grief that I had felt two years before, when I first realized that graduation might not be in the cards for me, had mostly dissipated. I was tired now, worn down by the endless barrage of health problems and the pressure to keep up with what should have been a light load. I was ready to be done, ready to have the energy to explore other parts of myself again.

That week, as my mother and I sat together at my kitchen table, she asked me if I felt like I had had a “good college experience.”

The question took me by surprise. I had certainly not had a typical college experience; after my first few semesters, I’d had to pull more and more away from the rigor of the academic environment I loved. By necessity, I’d had to learn to find my own identity in something other than the world of scholarship. I’d spent the past two years discovering how much there was to love in my newfound role as a homemaker; I’d learned to take satisfaction in keeping a house of order, and to approach a new recipe with the same zeal I’d previously felt for literary criticism.

I sat at the table, the silver afternoon light of late March diffusing through the windows, and thought about it.

“Yes,” I said finally. “I have.”

Then I added that focus of the last two years had certainly not been a quintessential college experience, but that they had still been good. Very good, in fact.

“I feel… fulfilled,” I said, realizing as I said it that it was true.

Somehow, in the slow passing of days and weeks and years, fulfillment had crept into my heart. I realized, sitting there at the kitchen table, that I was content—that even though the path my life had taken was so different than the one I had expected, I was still happy. My days felt full of beauty; I had learned that even something as simple as loading the dishwasher could feel meditative, fulfilling, if I only opened my eyes.

So yes, I thought. Typical or not, my college experience has been a good one.

.   .   .   .   .

It’s been more than two years since that conversation with my mom. Like everyone, my life is filled with ups and downs, and I still have far too many moments of doubt and insecurity. And yet, the contentment remains. The fulfillment remains. I have come to love this life I’m living, even if it’s not the one I had planned for myself. It’s a continual process, a journey of discovery and delight.

And when I look back on it, even with all the bumps, I can’t deny:

I’m glad to have had the ride.

On Time

Since we’ve made the decision to move, everything seems to be moving at a quicker pace. Actually, it could have started moving at a quicker pace when I found out I was pregnant for the second time; an allusion to what will come of two children underfoot. Like any good holiday weekend, we are spending time with family. Yesterday, as the grill was smoking, and music was playing (Nina Simone) my dad was in the process of fixing the old screen door. Charley loves my dad, his Pop-Pop, and was right there with him, with his own kiddie toolbox, a weathered paint-chipped yellow tackle-box my dad had given him. He is barely as tall as Pop-Pop’s knee, and took out his little plastic pliers, to match my dad’s real metal ones, to twist the door frame. There was much grunting and production involved. And I stood just inside the porch watching them thinking, These days are numbered, and it almost made me cry. Something about being a parent makes you see time more clearly, see that it will pass, that it is a constant. This is a comfort for stressful periods, when you think you can’t make it any further, and a sadness for happy periods, when you wish the night would never end. It’s striking me much more with this second pregnancy. I see my husband and our life together stretching infinitely ahead of us. We have so many memories yet to make, traditions to start. I want to make renting a beach house every summer a tradition, we’ve only talked about it for several years! We have our ritual of only $20 gifts for each other at Christmas, a chance to be creative and thrifty. And I see my past with my family, all the memories already made, history that won’t be forgotten. So many family vacations and apple picking trips, beach days, and snow days, and all the days in between. I am standing in the middle wondering, How did I get here?

There is truth to that Talking Heads song:

You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? 

But perhaps I am feeling overly nostalgic because my brother, my LITTLE brother will soon graduate college, and when we visited a quaint Pennsylvania college the other weekend, and had lunch at a hipster café, I felt old. More than the extra pregnancy weight and the tiredness of chasing a toddler, I looked at the young college girls, so oblivious to anything else but themselves, and thought ‘I don’t see myself there anymore’. They were giggling, wearing their sweatpants to breakfast just rolling out of bed at 11 am, ordering their omelets with only egg whites, and nobody looked twice at my toddler running around.

I am scared of the day when weddings and births turn into funerals, and wonder when that day will come. When it does, there will be an irreplaceable chasm that opens up. I know there will be comfort in my own family, my roots I am just starting to set down. But I will wonder how I made it that far, and how I will carry on.

A Back-to-School Tribute

Before each school year begins, I try to center myself. I organize supplies, I write lesson plans, I memorize my schedule. These sort of tasks, however, aren’t enough and I always find myself reflecting on teaching itself, in the broadest possible sense. I came to teaching late. My first foray into a classroom in a role other than student was when I began my graduate program the summer I turned twenty-five. I felt old, and compared to many of my fellow students, I was old. One of the first things we were asked as we began our studies was to think about the teachers who had impacted us and why that was.

It’s a simple question, nearing cliché. For me, it was easy to answer. My high school Latin teacher, Miss Ede Ashworth, made me crave her praise. I was not the sort of student who yearned for a close relationship with a teacher, or to be pushed to my limits, or to be made to cry by a profound lesson a la Dead Poets Society. I was jaded in high school, arrogant about my self-perceived intelligence, and wary of adults, particularly teachers. Miss Ashworth’s skill and style penetrated my overconfidence and my (probably highly-irritating) cynicism. Her brilliance came from being able to do this without my ever feeling as though she was trying to do exactly that.

I should point out here that Miss Ashworth is a highly-lauded teacher, winning awards that have acknowledged and rewarded her preternatural skill in the classroom.  She managed to bring out the best in so many students, and she did it without seeming to modify her approach or system for any individual learners in the room.  This is nearly unheard of in conversations about good teaching where the norm is to consider the diversity of learners in a classroom and differentiate instruction as needed to reach as many students of possible. This was not necessary for Miss Ashworth---like an elite athlete, she was unfazed by changes in routine, student behavior, or fire drills, and managed to execute well every single class period.

She was teaching Latin, a language so regimented that it can turn off even the most academically-minded student. She required us to make flashcards for every single vocabulary word we learned – a requirement I hated because I didn’t feel as though I needed them.  However, other students made great use of flashcards, and I learned later that while I may not have needed to use the flashcards myself, she had cagily instilled in me the discipline of careful review and preparation. This discipline was key to my perseverance while studying Latin in college.

She told us little about herself, leaving an aura of mystery around her that my classmates and I attempted to shatter through the sort of speculation (“do you think Miss Ashworth ever watches television?) usually reserved for elementary school students. She was always impeccably prepared for class, never seemed to be absent, and could be found before and after school for extra help or to answer questions.

When I did my student teaching, my cooperating teacher told me that he believed there were two core qualities that every teacher must have: she should love the subject matter and appreciate the joys and challenges of working with young people. Miss Ashworth’s love for Latin was palpable---she drove us all over the state to participate in the Junior Classical League, and she ran a yearly Foreign Language Week at school that was driven primarily by her sheer enthusiasm. She had us do art projects about the Romans, she had us travel all over the tri-state area to museums to see relevant exhibits, and she made sure that her students took opportunities to share their knowledge of the language with others. And, even more importantly, while she had very high standards for both academic work on behavior, I remember not one moment when she seemed disdainful when we were rowdy, unfocused, or both.

When I was a senior, I was the only student that year to enroll in Advanced Placement Latin. Before the year began, I wondered what it would be like to be in a one-on-one setting. Would it be odd? I was nervous, because part of what Miss Ashworth did so well was treat all of us remarkably warmly, without ever creating too much familiarity. It ended up (unsurprisingly) being the best learning experience of my high school years. Her gentle guidance as I tried to decide which college attend (never saying what I should or should not do) helped steady me. The intensity of the AP curriculum and how desperately I wanted to please her led me to work incredibly hard and reap the rewards.

Thus, as I begin each new school year, I think back to what it was like to be in Miss Ashworth’s classes. I am not yet a fraction of the teacher that she is, and likely never will be, but her example often inspires me to think more critically about how I am approaching both my students and the subject matter. I ask myself what she might do in a particular situation, and I realize now how much work, dedication, and attention to detail went into all of those seemingly effortless lessons. Each time I sneak in explaining a Latin root into one of my classes, I feel the same old excitement that I used to feel in the windowless classroom that she made crackle with language. Although I had no idea at the time that I would ever be a high school teacher, I am forever grateful that I was able to spend forty-eight minutes every day for four years watching her work.

II. paris

Leah and I have a week off from our classes at the American College Program of Provence, and we have met my friend Will in Paris. It is night, the October streets are full of people, and after drinks in the Latin Quarter we are going to see the Eiffel Tower. The métro is still running, shuffling back and forth across the City of Light those accidental Parisian revelers who are not even aware that it is Halloween, something of a peculiarity to non-Americans. I haven't been trick-or-treating since I was a kid, and don't particularly like the drunk college Halloween parties that have recently marked the holiday, but for some reason I miss just having the possibility of disguising myself this year.

The tower is still blocked from us by the tawny apartment buildings, and Leah turns to me as we prepare to cross one last street before our view is clear. She has never seen the Eiffel Tower before, never even been to Paris, and the excitement reflects in her eyes like the twinkling, spinning lights that are illuminating the city. As someone who tends to keep something of a perpetually calm exterior, I like how openly excited she gets about these kinds of things.

We are about to take our first step onto the empty road when a Frenchman on rollerblades zooms in front of me from the right. And then another, and another. Soon there is a whole crowd of them whizzing by under the golden light of the street lamps, some wearing spandex shorts, others in helmets, one is still in a suit and clutching his briefcase from work just a handful of hours before. And then there are costumes, too, lots of them for the holiday. I catch sight of a man dressed like a sandwich, and the slices of cardboard bread are so wonderfully out-of-nowhere and unexpected that I feel a pang for back home. Everyone dresses up there.

The whooshing sound of plastic wheels on cool pavement dies away as the last of the rollerbladers continue into obscurity down the street. We can finally cross, and do. We drink Heinekens by the tower---just as tall as Leah thought it would be, and glittering---and Will talks about American things in his loud, carrying voice. I find myself thinking fondly about that man dressed as a sandwich. Then we go home. Back to the hostel.

Photo by Melissa Delzio on Flickr, Creative Commons License

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Rebecca D. Martin is an essayist and book reviewer in Southwest Virginia. She's also a wife and a mother, a reluctant meal planner, a relaxed home keeper, and an obsessively avid reader. Her work has been published in The Other Journal, Kinfolk Magazine, and The Lamppost, and she is a staff writer for The Curator. She writes about books and domestic culture at www.rebarit.blogspot.com. When longtime friend and fellow writer Carrie Allen Tipton and I get together to talk books, especially books with nuanced considerations of family and homemaking, we can’t say enough. So here are in-depth reviews of just two books that are on our shelves lately. We hope you enjoy them!

Rebecca D. Martin Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Our bags were packed for vacation. Our small family prepared to set adrift and let the sand and waves and salted air breathe a simpler, richer life into us. I zipped the final duffle bag, sliding Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea into the top.

Morrow Lindbergh knew what we were after: the “spontaneity of now; the vividness of here” that would strengthen our small family. In this thin volume, organized by meditations on a handful of seashells (literal gifts from the sea), Morrow Lindbergh’s connections flow from an interesting 1950’s cultural critique to early Feminist philosophy to her own struggle maintaining a balanced, introspective life while housekeeping and caring for a family of seven. I hoped her thoughts about home and family, culture and womanhood, work and writing, nature and the sea would set my own thoughts on a good course for our beach week.

I also approached Morrow Lindbergh with some reservation. Here was a complex woman. She lost her first child in a horrific kidnapping and murder. She married early Feminist thought with troublingly hardlined notions of feminine identity. Her husband was a mid-Twentieth Century aviation icon who held racist ideals disturbingly in line with the Nazis. In later life, both Anne and Charles admirably championed environmental protection and preservation. She learned to fly planes when other women merely stayed at home. She recognized staying at home to raise children as a choice, a noble one. This was a woman who had things to say. But did I want to hear them?

I discovered I did. One of the significant and unexpected gifts I gleaned from this book was a sort of readerly humility, a willingness to keep listening to the end, whatever my responses page by page. And in the end, Anne Morrow Lindbergh was a person I genuinely liked, whether or not our worldviews aligned.

There are, indeed, many treasures to be found between the covers of this book. At times, Morrow Lindbergh’s prose grows pedantic, but in other moments it shimmers with a lovely, rhythmic give-and-take, and leaves the reader with gems, most notably her thoughts on simplification: “Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distractions.” Or, “What a commentary on our civilization, when being alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it – like a secret vice!” Or, prescient of our current information age’s pitfalls (and she didn’t even have a Facebook account!):

“We are asked today to feel compassionately for everyone in the world; to digest intellectually all the information spread out in public print; and to implement in action every ethical impulse aroused by our hearts and minds. The inter-relatedness of the world links us constantly with more people than our hearts can hold.”

There is a kindred understanding here. I feel challenged to return home to our normal-paced autumn life and consider how I might simplify (a slimmer Facebook newsfeed, for a start) – and how I might love my family better in the process. Yes, I’m glad Gift from the Sea made its way into my duffle bag, and I’m glad I could overcome some of my hastier judgments in order to glean some of Morrow Lindbergh’s sea gift insights for myself.

Carrie Allen Tipton

A Southerly Course: Recipes and Stories from Close to Home by Martha Hall Foose

Someone else will have to review this lovely book as a cook. I am reviewing it as a homesick southerner. Martha Hall Foose’s recipes and stories emerge from her deep love of southern culture, a sentiment which I share and which remains a source of puzzlement to both of us.

In the introduction, she muses over why southern foodways exert such a hold on her, profoundly realizing that “it is perhaps because we Southerners are homesick for the place in which we still live.” Her poignant longing for the very earth on which she stands connects with my own desire to stand there once again. Like Foose, I was raised in Mississippi; like her, I left to learn of the wider world; unlike her, I return now only in my mind and twice a year for holidays. But her book has helped me undo my own exile this summer, to come back home again.

I first came to know Martha Hall Foose’s work at a cold Christmastime, the right time to snuggle under a quilt made by my great-grandmother in Arkansas in 1936 and read Screen Doors and Sweet Tea: Recipes and Tales from a Southern Cook. This, her first book, hooked me with its ingenious cocktail of stories, recipes, tidbits of culinary advice, photos, and mini-essays. I wasn’t the only one; it won the 2009 James Beard Award. The writing was elegant and funny and, thank heaven, deeply unconcerned with speed, ease, or health. The recipes called for mayonnaise and deep fryers, and celebrated regular afternoon libations.

In A Southerly Course, published in 2011, Foose expanded on this successful formula. Marked by her blend of formality and informality, its dishes run the sociological spectrum from congealed salads for bridal luncheons to crawfish bread for tailgating. Its arrangement in five sections, corresponding to the courses of a proper dinner, emphasizes her formal training at the French pastry school École Lenôtre. Ingredients such as mirlitons, sweet potatoes, and crawfish highlight her fusion of indigenous southern staples with highfalutin’ techniques. Unconcerned with political correctness, the author draws heavily on the hunting culture of the Mississippi Delta, her childhood and now adult home. She speaks of a world of monogrammed serving utensils and ladies’ luncheon clubs.

In her recipe for Custard Pie, dedicated to fellow Mississippian Eudora Welty, Foose said that Welty helped teach her that “you don’t have to leave the place that you love and know, that it is not a prerequisite that to understand home you must exile yourself to gain perspective.” For me, leaving birthed fresh perspective on the traditions, people, landscape, and culture that I grew up with a few states east of Texas, where I currently live—and which is most definitely not the South.

A Southerly Course reminds me that though I may live in exile, there are many paths back, through word, image, palate, and most especially, through memory. And if I keep flipping through this book long enough, I might just try my hand at the crabmeat casserolettes. At least I can eat well while I long for home.

The DIY Illusion

Long before Pinterest, which seems to have become the ultimate repository of DIY dreams, I was cursed with the insatiable desire to surround myself with beautiful and interesting things and to announce proudly to the world that “I did it myself.” This urge to emulate the creations and achievements of others extends even beyond the realm of tactile objects to skills and feats as well. When I visit a museum, I can’t help but think, “I will return next week and copy the masters!” When I discover that someone has written a poem a day for a year, I think, “What a great idea! I should do it too!”

This impulse has resulted in a number of false starts. I seem to recall joining one of those 356 groups on Flickr and subsequently following through for about three of 356 days. After reading Eat, Pray, Love, I bought an “Easy Italian Reader” and a yoga mat, both of which have seen embarrassingly little use since their addition to my collection of very-useful-yet-unused self-improvement tools.

I know I’m not the only one. Tutorials, how-tos, and advice columns make up some of the most popular information on the internet. We want to know, in 500 words or less, how to build our own websites, sweep own our hair up into classy side chignons, and paint striking works of modern art for our homes.

Don’t get me wrong—I love reading this stuff, and I love writing it too. I am a strong advocate for homemade food and handmade things and tools for self-improvement. But I often find that I don’t give enough consideration to the “yourself” aspect of DIY inspiration. I so easily forget to account for where I'm starting from. I see a hair tutorial and try to ignore the fact that my hair is the frizzy, chaotic alter ego of the long, silky locks in the photo. I see “Easy Italian Reader” and realize much later that I still can’t read it if my Italian vocabulary is limited to food terms.

This is not to say that we should all abandon our DIY dreams and leave the doing and creating and achieving to the experts and professionals. There’s certainly nothing wrong with gathering inspiration from the creations and achievements and adventures of others. But if I hope to cultivate motivation from the things that inspire me, rather than disappointment at my failure to replicate them, perhaps a bit more self-reflection is in order.

The DIY illusion is not the idea that we can do things ourselves. Every piece of inspiration we encounter broadens our sense of what’s possible. There’s certainly room in this world for more faith in what each of us is capable of. The illusion to be wary of, however, is that we can do new and unfamiliar things quickly and effortlessly, if only we had the right tools or the time to watch a five-minute instructional video.

So the next time I file away a glamorous photo or add a new how-to book to my wishlist, I hope to take some time to differentiate between inspiration and aspiration. Often what’s most inspiring about beautiful creations and fantastic achievements is not the glamorous photo of the end result to which we may aspire but the story of the person or people behind it, the combination of time, talent, learning, commitment, failure, and perseverance that made what’s possible real.

The Hand-off

It has been nine months and I still think about you first thing each morning.  The shower drain is streaked with the tears of 284 days.  I worry that I am forgetting you, forgetting the little things.  Then, I will reflexively feel around for you on the bed or think I hear you in the other room and I know you are embedded in the fibers.  When no one else is home, I wander over and put my hand in the clay mold that bears your name and your print.  I run over the ridges and indentations and am stung with memories of holding your hand as you slept solidly on my lap.  Every.  Single.  Evening.  For 11 years. The first day I met you we formed a quiet but immediate connection.  You tumbled my way through a flurry of sound and movement all around us.  We sat on the floor together and you nuzzled up close, warm and curious.  I tried to keep an open mind, scanned the place for anyone else to hold my interest.  But you were it.  You had my number and I had yours.

Those first months were all halcyon hazy summer.  You flopped on your belly in the dirt as I dug up weeds and planted patches of color all over the yard.  You refused to sleep alone and forced us to cozy up on the kitchen linoleum at your side or bring you into bed in the wee, small hours.  The canyon trail with the sloping hillside was your favorite sunset destination and after 10 straight hours of managing tragedy and illness, there was no better way to end my day.  You caught a bad cold early on and I sat through that birthday dinner frantically counting the minutes until I could get back home and continue nursing you through.  Nothing else mattered as much.

Nobody had ever seen anything like you.  The way you moved, the way you talked.  You could tear around the yard, scooting and leaping into the pool or settle into a nest of pillows on the couch and in either mode, you were utterly fascinating.  To a person, every one was impressed by the limitlessness with which you adored.  You wanted nothing more than to be with.  Your only enemies were balloons and footballs.  You had the most ridiculous face, defying all explanation … it made no sense.

In the later years, you happily abided five major moves, three of them cross-country.  You integrated a series of new family members and seemed to let go of your former incarnations without incident.  Everywhere we landed was home to you and every new person a comfortable lap.  You just had to get your bearings, get the lay of the land and you were off to races.  You were an inspiration to me in this way.

In the final months, you noticed my lap disappearing.  Our nightly ritual was growing increasingly less convenient but even this you soldiered through.  It required maneuvering and creativity, but you managed to nestle into new positions along the way.  Reluctantly, when there simply wasn’t the room, you opted for the second best lap in the vicinity.  I wish I had known that we were in a countdown during that time.  Or perhaps I am glad I hadn’t.  I was so busy with this other countdown, you see.

That last day was simply too much.  I was supposed to be elated and basking in the celebration of a new life.  In actual fact, I was the shell of a person.  I felt guilty for not wanting go — I truly wanted to cancel the whole thing.  But then, how do you cancel something like that?  How do you explain it to people?  ‘No,’ I thought.  ‘It’s time to start the transition.  You will regret not having marked this occasion.’  And I still think that is right, even though I was scarcely there.  It was all happening to someone else.  I look at the pictures and think, ‘Oh, she was there?  Did I talk to her?’  The only things indelibly imprinted from that day are his whispers in my ear, once to tell me it was time to go and the second time to tell me she was already gone.  I spent the car ride back telling myself it was OK that we weren’t there, that they were all surrounding her.  What a spectacle I must have been arriving at the hospital — stuffed into that silk dress, belly protruding and wild with grief.

She turned eight months today.  We half-joked that we hoped she would be imbued with your spirit, your passing converging with her birth.  I often think you would have loved her and how amazing it would have been to see you two together.  She is so delighted by everything these days, so fully engaged, she would have patted your haunches and squealed like she does with Ruby.  People kept telling me that her arrival would soften the blow of your leaving.  By all rights, the two should probably not even be comparable.  Of course they are and also not even close.  She’s on my lap constantly, much more than even you were.  She glows with your light, absolutely shares your disposition, there is no question.  Still, if you were here, you would shove her over just enough to divide the space and I would totally let you.

Lessons from a conference...

Dearest Clara,

We’ve been on the go a lot, both with and without you, these last few weeks.  Most recently, I was in New York again, but this time for a conference.  I seem to have a lot of those---some for my day job, and a lucky few just for my own interests.  Conferences can be a little intimidating, a bit like the first day of school.  And when those presenting and attending are people whom you’ve long admired and want to learn from, you always wonder what your place is.  You wonder if you will be brave enough to talk to people.  And you’ll always wonder what you’ll say as you work up your nerve.   These are the things that have helped me in these kinds of events:

• Bring lots of business cards: It’s a great way to break the ice and it’s a great way to have something to talk about.  And bring more than you think you’ll need---you’ll give them about because you meet people, because you have to leave one with your luggage, because you’ll want to leave behind your contact information, or enter to win something.  Just have lots---I promise you’ll use them.
• Know something about those speaking: They took the time to prepare a presentation, so take the time to prepare and learn something about them.  That way, if you have the opportunity to meet them or sit next to them at part of the event, you already have a few things you can go to when making conversation.
• Remember most people---even if they don’t show it---are just as nervous: Don’t be intimidated.  Everyone else is outside of their comfort zone too.  Introduce yourself, bring others in if you see they want to be part of the conversation, and don’t sweat it if a conversation doesn’t go the way you planned.  Try to be an even more friendly and approachable version of yourself, and be inclusive.
• It’s okay to take a break: Sometimes conferences and events can become overwhelming---they’re full of people we don’t know, and hopefully new ideas we haven’t seen.  It’s tough to be always “on,” and the days can become long.  It’s okay to duck out for a few minutes into a corner or quiet space, or even take an hour back at the hotel to decompress and reset.
• Go to more than one! Believe it or not, these things get easier over time, and when you’re a repeat visitor, you always know someone too, which makes for smoother sailing.  All of the sudden, you become the person that others come to see.  A few events a year where you’re exposed to new people and new ideas are good to stimulate your own ideas---choose wisely but make the investment!

Now back to the sessions!

All my love,

Mom